by T E Kinsey
‘She had a big bag with her. Like a sailor’s duffel. Then about quarter past eleven she drinks up, hoists her big bag on her tiny shoulders, and slopes off into the dark.’
‘Did you see her face at all?’ asked the inspector.
‘No, she kept to the shadows and kept her head down. Couldn’t see nothin’ but her hat.’
‘Did anyone talk to her?’
‘No, she just sat there on her own for about half an hour, then got up and went.’
‘It certainly could be Worrel,’ said the inspector.
‘It could be any suffragette,’ I said. ‘A woman in a white dress and white boots whose face no one saw could be any one of thousands of women.’ I sat for a moment, lost in thought. After a while I said, ‘Describe her boots to me.’
‘They was white,’ he said. ‘White boots like some of the suffragettes wear.’
‘Plain white?’ I said.
‘What? Yes, they was plain . . . No, hang on a minute, you’re right. No, they wasn’t. They had flowers embroidered on ’em. Daisies. I was watchin’ her as she walked out and I caught ’em then. White boots with daisies.’
Inspector Sunderland added a few coins to the small pile of change and we let Weasel return to his dominoes.
Back out on the street, the inspector said, ‘You know who the woman was, don’t you?’
‘I certainly know who wears white boots embroidered with daisies,’ I said. ‘She’s on our list of suspected cuckoos.’
‘Your what?’
‘One of the recent recruits to the suffragette cause is actually a member of the Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League and has been feeding details of the WSPU’s plans both to the Women’s League and the Men’s League for Opposing Sense and Reason.’
‘The Men’s League for Opposing Woman Suffrage, surely,’ he said with a slight laugh.
‘It amounts to the same thing,’ I said. ‘Of all the women who joined the WSPU towards the end of last year, only three remained committed to the cause: Lizzie Worrel, Beattie Challenger, and Marisol Rojas. One of them, we knew – or thought we knew, at any rate – was the cuckoo. The smart money was on Lizzie Worrel, with an each-way bet on the Chilean – none of us knows anything about South American politics, so who knows what her motivations are? But the rank outsider – in my mind, at least – was a pasty lump of nothing by the name of Beatrice Challenger. A woman so bland and unassuming that it’s often difficult to remember that she’s even there. The only spark she’s ever shown was when she was criticizing the police. Other than that she’s a woman about whom the only interesting thing is that she wears extremely pretty boots of white leather embroidered with daisies.’
‘And the motive for the fire?’
‘At the very least, to discredit the WSPU by breaking their ceasefire,’ I said.
‘It’s a bit flimsy,’ he said. ‘Have you any evidence other than Weasel remembering the daisies?’
‘At this stage, none at all,’ I said. ‘And all the evidence we have so far comes from the dead journalist’s encoded notebook.’
‘It certainly adds up, though. I’d been wondering how the chief superintendent came to find out I’d been moonlighting on the case. I’ve been extremely careful to make certain that all my enquiries have been discreet, and I kept our meetings as scarce and as short as possible. I was sure no one knew I was taking any interest in it at all. But Weasel was right – I’ve been leaned on quite heavily. And now I know where the information came from.’
‘Thank you for going to so much trouble on our behalf,’ I said. ‘And thank you for taking me along this evening.’
‘You and Lady Hardcastle are never any trouble,’ he said. ‘Well, never very much trouble, anyway.’
‘We try not to be,’ I said. ‘The problem we have now, though – as I’m reasonably sure you must have told us more than once – is that knowing a thing and being able to prove that thing are two completely different . . . things.’
‘I’m very much afraid they are. But if anyone can work out how to trap this Challenger character and find the proof we need to secure her conviction, I’d always put my money on you and Lady Hardcastle.’
‘You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘Although getting Lizzie Worrel released remains our priority.’
‘Of course, but the one follows the other. Here we are.’
We had arrived at Bristol Bridge, where the little Rover was parked beneath a streetlamp. A well-dressed man was leaning drunkenly on the front wing. He had apparently been talking to Lady Hardcastle.
‘Ah,’ she said as we approached, ‘here she is. This gentleman was wondering how much you’d charge for an hour of your company.’
‘Tell him he can’t afford me,’ I said, stepping around him to get into the motor car.
‘I did, dear, but he’s really rather insistent.’ She was very evidently enjoying herself.
I’d almost made it to the motor car when the man grabbed my arm and said, ‘Come on, sweetheart. Just a kiss, at least. Don’t be so coy.’
The word ‘coy’ was actually delivered as ‘c—oyyyyyyoof’ as I threw him on to his back. I still had hold of the hand that had grabbed me and I used it to twist his arm.
‘Don’t do that, my love,’ I said in Nelly’s broad Valleys accent. ‘It’s not nice. You should treat women with a little more respect, you should.’
‘I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll bloody well get you for this. You saw what she did,’ he said to the inspector. ‘You saw. I’ll be calling you as a b-b-bloody witness.’
I twisted a little harder, making him yelp.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ said the inspector. ‘I didn’t see a thing. But she’s right, you know – you should treat women with a great deal more respect.’
I dropped the man’s arm and clambered into the Rover while the inspector graciously cranked the engine to life for us. The man was hauling himself to his feet by gripping on to the side of the Rover with his good arm.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘I’ll have you. I’m going to find a copper and I’ll bloody have you.’
The inspector had pulled out his warrant card.
‘You’ve found one,’ he said, holding up the card. ‘Now unless you want to be taken down to the Bridewell and charged with causing a public nuisance, I suggest you sling your hook.’
‘But . . . but . . .’ stammered the man, now more bewildered and frustrated than ever. ‘You saw her assault me.’
‘I also saw you slander a titled lady and her maid by suggesting that they were common prostitutes. If you insist on pressing charges, I shall have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
The man made a half-hearted lunge at me, but the inspector blocked him.
‘I really would be on my way if I were you, sir. I’d hate to see what she might do to the other arm if I let her get at you.’
Muttering a few choice oaths, the man sloped off, massaging his recently wrenched shoulder.
‘You two ought to sling your hooks, too,’ said the inspector with a smile. ‘Before you cause any more trouble.’
With a cheery wave, we set off towards the High Street and the middle of town.
In defiance of all the tediously restrictive rules of etiquette, we decided to see if Lady Bickle was at home. It was far too late to be paying unannounced social calls, and there was a fair chance she would be out anyway, but we thought it was worth trying. I had told Lady Hardcastle what we had learned from Weasel and she was keen to share the news at once.
We rang the doorbell and were only slightly astonished when Williams welcomed us in and said that we should go straight through to the drawing room. He led the way, opened the door, and ushered us in without introduction.
Lady Bickle was sitting at the piano and got up as soon as we entered. There were two men relaxing in armchairs, one of whom I knew – it was Lady Hardcastle’s friend Dr Simeon Gosling.
‘How extraordinary and wonderful to see
you both,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Welcome. We were just talking about you, and here you are.’
‘Hello,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You can’t possibly have been expecting us, though. Surely not.’
‘What do you mean, dear? Oh, Williams. No, not specifically. I just made sure he knew that if ever you were to call, he should let you in and lead you to me without delay.’
‘That’s a relief – I suddenly wondered if there might be another spy.’
‘No,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Don’t be silly. But listen to me chattering on. I haven’t done the introductions. The heart-meltingly handsome individual on the sofa is my husband Ben. Ben, dear, this is Emily, Lady Hardcastle and her . . . her friend. I was going to say lady’s maid, but I’ve known them for nearly a month now and she’s so much more than that. Oh, and I’ve not mentioned her name. She’s Florence Armstrong. Or do you prefer Flo?’
‘Either is fine, my lady,’ I said. ‘Actually my mother calls me Flossie, but most people call me Flo.’
‘Then good evening, Emily, and good evening, Flo,’ said Sir Benjamin. He was, as we had suspected, a good deal older than his wife, but he had the same boyish air about him as his friend, the police surgeon sitting next to him.
‘And the other reprobate you know, I think.’
‘Hello, old girl,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Fancy,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’ asked Lady Bickle. ‘Is it exciting news?’
‘Interesting, I should say, more than exciting,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But news there is.’
‘Then we must retire at once to another room and leave the boys to their own devices for a few moments. Do excuse us, gentlemen.’
She led us out of the door and into what appeared to be a sitting room.
‘I’m afraid we’ve already eaten,’ she said, ‘but do please stay and spend the rest of the evening with us. Ben and Simeon get a bit silly when they’re together so it would be good to have an ally or two.’
‘We’re hardly dressed for it,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But if you’ll take us as we are, I’d definitely love to. Flo?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It would be a wonderful way to spend the evening.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Now, what’s this news?’
‘Flo has just been to the Court Sampson Inn,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘in the company of our dear friend, Inspector Sunderland. This is the reason for her uncustomary scruffy appearance.’
‘Trollopy, was the word used, I believe,’ I said.
‘Only by you, dear. All of this is by the by. There they met one of the inspector’s informants, from whose eyewitness account of the evening of the fire they have discovered that the person responsible – and almost certainly the cuckoo in your suffragette nest – is . . .’
There was an annoyingly long pause.
‘I’ve already come close to dislocating a man’s shoulder this evening, my lady,’ I said. ‘I’m clearly not in the mood to be trifled with. And Lady Bickle has a guest, so she certainly has better things to do.’
‘I was trying to build an air of dramatic tension,’ she said. ‘The cause of all your misfortunes is Beattie Challenger.’
‘I can’t say I’m overly surprised,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Hugely disappointed, but not surprised. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t really see it being either of the other two.’
‘Really?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was sure it would be one of the other two. Challenger is so . . . so . . .’
‘Bland?’ I suggested.
‘The very word,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I think it’s for that selfsame reason that I’ve never quite trusted her,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘How can someone be so drearily ordinary? There’s no spark to the woman. None visible, anyway. It’s obvious now that it was just an act. The question remains, though: what are we going to do about it?’
‘I had the same conversation with the inspector,’ I said. ‘We need to find proof of her guilt or to devise some way of trapping her into a confession. It’s not going to be easy.’
‘Not at all,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I suggest that our very first move be not to move at all. Whatever happens, we absolutely must not let on that we know what she’s up to.’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘Since we don’t know the full extent of what she’s up to, it’s doubly important. We can’t tip her off before we know everything there is to know.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lady Bickle.
‘We have a little experience in finding out what people are up to,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘So perhaps we should retreat to our country lair and see what we can come up with. If you have any ideas in the meantime, please telephone us.’
‘I most certainly shall,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘For now, though, shall we rejoin the boys? I’m sure they’ve been missing us terribly.’
We rejoined ‘the boys’, who had barely noticed that we weren’t there.
As we walked in, Sir Benjamin was saying, ‘. . . trying to put it back in with a pair of Elliot forceps.’
This, apparently, was hilarious, and rendered the two men helpless with laughter.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Sir Benjamin when they had calmed down. ‘Have you had your confab?’
‘We have. The game – as that chap in the books always says – is afoot.’
‘Foot,’ said Dr Gosling, and they were off again.
‘I invited Emily and Flo to stay a while,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘I thought we might play something.’
‘Know any five-handed card games?’ asked Dr Gosling.
‘A few,’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘But a word of advice for you all: never gamble with my wife. You’ll lose your shirt.’
‘I think I might,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘But I’m not sure about our Emily. Didn’t you tell me you’d won a German brothel in a poker game, old girl?’
‘Free use of a brothel, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And a huge pile of cash.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘I think we ought to play for matchsticks.’
And so we did. It was past midnight by the time we stepped out into the cold night and shivered our way home in our open motor car.
Chapter Fifteen
First thing on Wednesday morning, Lady Hardcastle began trying to contact Dinah Caudle by telephoning the newspaper office. She was told that Miss Caudle hadn’t been in that day and that she had left a message saying that she would be out all day researching a story. Lady Hardcastle left a message of her own, asking Miss Caudle to contact us as soon as she was able.
We took our elevenses in the drawing room, where we began rearranging the crime board. We were sure now that Lizzie Worrel was innocent of the arson, and that she was probably not involved in any of the other shenanigans that Brookfield had uncovered. It seemed unlikely that Marisol Rojas was mixed up in anything, but we kept her on the board for completeness. And, lack of actual evidence notwithstanding, Beattie Challenger now took centre stage as our likely arsonist and murderer.
‘I don’t think we should discount the men,’ I said as Lady Hardcastle rearranged her sketches and added more notes. ‘The Men’s League for Opposing the Twentieth Century was definitely involved at some level.’
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘Even if all they did was stand on the touchline and cheer her on, they’re part of it. I wonder how far their grubby influence reaches, though. If there’s someone high enough to obstruct us, it could be that we never get an opportunity to bring them to justice. Although, if we can get Harry to point us at the right people, we might yet see them punished. I doubt their influence stretches as far as London.’
‘That’s something for us to look forward to, then,’ I said.
‘I’ll make some circumspect enquiries the next time I write to him,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in being related to someone who works in Whitehall if one doesn’t make use of the connection o
nce in a while. And I’m sure it would do him some good, too. I imagine his standing in the Foreign Office could only be helped by making pals in the Home Office.’
‘Unless they’re all in on it,’ I said. ‘The Men’s League for the Continuing Oppression of Women might have members in Whitehall, too.’
‘I doubt they have to,’ she said. ‘That rather seems to be Whitehall’s standing policy – no need for special lobbying on that issue. Do you know, I sometimes think—’
Her sometimes thought was interrupted by the doorbell.
‘How rude,’ she said. ‘Just as I was about to start pontificating.’
‘I’m thankful for small mercies,’ I said as I left the room to answer the door.
It was, to my surprise, Dinah Caudle. I stepped aside to allow her to enter.
‘Good morning, Miss Caudle,’ I said. ‘Do, please, come in. Lady Hardcastle has been trying to get in touch with you at the newspaper office.’
‘Did they not pass on my message?’ she said as I took her hat, coat, and gloves.
‘Only that you were out working on a story.’
‘I despair sometimes. I left clear and specific instructions that if Lady Hardcastle called, they were to tell her I was on my way to see her.’
The lady herself appeared in the hall.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t get that message,’ she said. ‘But you’re here now, anyway, so it’s all turned out for the best. Come through to the drawing room. We were just having our elevenses – can I offer you a little something?’
‘A cup of tea would be most welcome,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Thank you.’
I fetched the teapot and took it through to the kitchen to be refreshed. Edna was there, taking a break from dusting the bedrooms.
‘Ah, Edna,’ I said. ‘Could you be an absolute treasure and make a fresh pot of tea and bring it to the drawing room, please? I’ll take a cup and saucer through.’
‘Certainly, m’dear,’ she said. ‘Is it that newspaper woman?’
‘It is.’
‘I thought we didn’t like her.’
‘We didn’t used to,’ I said. ‘But we seem to have arrived at a tense truce. It always feels to me that hostilities might resume at any moment, but for now we’re managing to rub along without too much unpleasantness.’